A Place to Call Home
by Miss Direction MFU
Summary: Everyone needs a place to call home. Illya helps Clair Donovan find her place. This is the third part in the Orphan Bond series following The Orphan Bond and The Girl Most Likely.


April 1962

"Well, look who's here—it's Beatnic Betty." Napoleon Solo said as Clair Donovan entered his and Illya's office. "Where is your beret?"

"Very funny," Clair said, glanced down at her black sweater and black drainpipe slacks. "I didn't have time to change clothes after my last exam—I almost missed my train."

She'd adopted the black ensemble after being too often mistaken for a high school student who'd wandered onto the University of Pennsylvania campus. When she started college, she wore the same skirts and sweaters as the other coeds, but on petite Clair, they apparently said high school freshman. It didn't help that she was two years younger than the other students—she'd been sixteen when she started at UPenn. So now she dressed like a coffee house waitress and the implied sophistication of black clothes seemed to helped a little.

Clair dropped her overnight bag on the floor before falling into a chair, stretching her legs out before her. She hadn't been exaggerating. She had run the last couple of blocks to 30th Street Station in Philadelphia and her feet hurt. Her ballet flats had offered little support on the mad dash.

"I think she looks fine," Illya said, looking up from the papers on his desk and shooting Clair a smile.

"You would." Napoleon gestured at Illya's black turtleneck. "I'm glad you were able to come, Clair. Mr. Waverly will be pleased that you're here."

"I wouldn't miss it for anything," she replied. Mr. Waverly was being honored for his years of service to U.N.C.L.E. The dinner dance that evening was to be an elegant affair. Clair was touched to be included.

"Hey Clair, glad you were able to make it," Heather McNabb said from the doorway. She waved a stack of papers in the air. "Napoleon, I have the staffing reports for you."

"Nothing I like better than staffing reports," he quipped as stood to accept them, "unless it's requisition forms."

"Thanks for letting me stay with you, Heather," Clair said. "It was so nice of you to offer."

"It's a pleasure. My spare bedroom is at your disposal."

"I hope there is something in here to wear tonight," Napoleon said as he nudged the suitcase with his toe. "Preferably something that wouldn't be worn by a cat burglar."

"I've been swamped studying for exams and haven't had time to go shopping. My roommate lent me a dress," she said, rummaging through the bag. She pulled out a light brown short sleeved chiffon dress and held it up to her shoulders. Arlene was a wonderful roommate, but she wasn't exactly a fashion plate. And she was a head taller than Clair. The dress hung down to mid-calf.

"I think it's too big," Heather offered.

"And rather too beige," Illya said.

"It's….blah." Napoleon shook his head.

"Hopeless, isn't it? Heather, do you think I could borrow something from one of the girls?"

"I can ask around, but you're tiny. Might be hard to find something to fit."

"You should buy a dress-something nice," Napoleon said. "There's enough time before the dinner."

"I don't know….there's hardly anything left in my clothing allowance. I had to raid it for textbooks and lab fees."

"You shouldn't have to rob Peter to pay Paul," Napoleon said, shaking his head.

"She is dressed for robbery, though" Illya said with wry smile.

"Your father made sure you would be well provided for, damn it." Napoleon slammed his hand on the desk. "He would be furious that you have to pinch pennies." Clair was surprised at how upset he was.

"It's not that I can't get what I need," she assured him. "But I have jump through hoops. First I have to send a written request to Mr. Lundy and wait for a decision. If he agrees on the expenditure, I have to send receipts and wait to be reimbursed. It's frustrating and it takes forever."

She tried not to complain. She knew students who worked two jobs to support themselves and pay for their education. She was lucky there was money available so she could concentrate on her studies. But she often missed out on outings with her friends because she was low on funds.

"That's it. I'm making an executive decision! Heather—take the afternoon off and help Clair find a dress."

"An executive decision," Illya said with a grin. "That promotion to chief enforcement officer has gone to your head. But while you're at it, I would like a raise in salary."

"Well, I'm certainly not passing up a chance to shop," Heather said. "Mitzi once mentioned a dress store that specializes in petites. I'll get the name from her and be right back."

"And I'm going to have a chat with Lundy. Let's see if we can loosen those purse strings." Napoleon grabbed his jacket and followed Heather out of the office.

"Napoleon loves fighting lawyers," Illya said, leaning back, arms folded over his chest. "Briefs and contracts are no match for a pistol. Lundy doesn't stand a chance."

Clair chuckled, imagining Napoleon holding Mr. Lundy at gunpoint. "I can just picture him - Give Clair access to her money if you know what's good for you."

"You like that idea, do you?" Illya said.

"I have been tempted to make a Lundy voodoo doll and stick pins in it."

"Lundy is a bureaucrat, I'm afraid. Forms and paperwork over people."

"That's part of it. But it's not just the tight purse-strings. Mr. Waverly sees me as a child. I know I'm younger than my classmates, but I'm held to the same standards and the same workload as everyone else. And yet, when it comes to making my own decisions, he thinks I'm too young. I'll have my degree next month and I'll be in graduate school in the fall. I want the independence that goes along with that."

"You decided on Columbia, didn't you?" Illya asked. "Right here in the city. Very exciting."

She'd been accepted at every graduate program she applied to. She chose Columbia with a very distinct goal in mind, but now that dream felt out of reach.

"The thing is, I don't want to spend the next two years petitioning for every pencil and test tube. But what I want-more than anything else-is to live on my own. I want to move into my father's-no, into my apartment."

"And Mr. Waverly doesn't agree with that."

"In his opinion, it's not appropriate for a girl of my age to live on her own. His views about women are positively Victorian. And Mr. Lundy isn't helping my case." She cleared her throat and deepened her voice in an approximation of Lundy's tone. "The rental income on the apartment far outweighs the cost of room and board in student housing. That income should be reinvested into mutual funds and allowed to grow. Using the apartment as your residence is not fiscally prudent. "

Illya laughed. "We should put you to work doing impersonations. You could fool the enemy. I'm not familiar with American universities. Is life in the dormitory uncomfortable?"

"No, not at all," she said, feeling a bit sheepish. She could only imagine the deprivation Illya likely experienced after the war when he was young. "The thing is, I've always lived in temporary housing. When I was little, we lived in the vicarage. But it was very clear that we were there only as long as my grandfather served the parish. When he died, we had a few weeks to pack up and leave so the new vicar and his family could move in. My father came to England for the funeral and suddenly we were a family again. We were supposed to move into a home of our own." And in one horrible moment, her mother was gone and the dream was over. "But, of course, that was not to be. After….after that, it's been a series of dorm rooms. I want a place that's mine."

"I understand, actually. There is little privacy in the Soviet Union. Everyone has to share living quarters. It was only when I came to New York that I lived in a apartment of my own. To be honest, I found the solitude a little unnerving at first. It was hard to sleep without the sound of voices in the next room and someone snoring in the next bed."

"I suppose I'll survive two more years until I'm 21."

Heather breezed back into the office, "Mitzi came through! The name of the shop is Boutique de Paris on 45th Street and we should ask for Delphine. We better hurry before Napoleon changes his mind about my afternoon off."

Boutique de Paris proved to be a small but elegant shop at the top of a flight of stairs. Delphine turned out to be more even petite than Clair, not much larger than a child. With short black hair and bright red lips, she could have been anywhere from 30 to 60. She wore a white silk blouse, black pencil skirt and red high heels.

"Ah, a special occasion," she said after they had explained what they were looking for. "I am certain we have something for you." With her animated face and fluttering hands, Clair could not take her eyes off the woman.

While Delphine went to find dresses, Clair and Heather wandered around the shop. A couple of ladies sat on a French provincial loveseat waiting for an attendant to bring out some garments for them. Clair was used to shops with long racks of clothing where shoppers picked out their own choices. This place seemed like it was out of an old movie.

Dresses were hung here and there, some on mannequins, others on hangers suspended from old-fashioned clothing stands. Clair found herself drawn to a black cocktail dress, it's top sequinned, the skirt made of yards of chiffon.

"Very sophisticated, no?" Delphine said, as she returned with an armful of dresses. "But I think it would look as if you were wearing your mother's dress. Come, let's see try some of these."

With one last loving look at the black dress, Clair followed Delphine and Heather into a dressing room. Delphine hung the dresses on hooks in the room, fluffing out a skirt on one of them. "I brought a selection of dresses, but I think this is the one for you," Delphine said.

"It's pink," Clair said. Pink was the color of the puff-sleeved, Bo Peep style dress she'd worn in her St. Boniface roommate Peggy's rainbow wedding two years ago. She'd lost "rock, paper, scissors" to Mary Grace, who got to wear green. "I don't want to look like I'm going to the prom."

"I think you will find this dress is unexpectedly sophisticated. Why don't you try it on?"

Once in the dress, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Clair had never seen anything quite like it. The fabric was shell pink with a hint of silver sheen to it. The sleeveless bodice was fitted to the waist, the skirt flaring out to end daringly just above the knee. Silvery beading frosted the neckline. Turning, she saw that the dress was cut all the way down to the beaded waistband showing an expanse of smooth skin. This was definitely not a prom dress.

"The skirt is a bit short," Clair said, twitching the fabric to fall as far on the leg as possible.

"This is the new style, no?" Delphine said with a smile. "Soon, the hemlines will be rising everywhere. You will be ahead of the crowd."

"You look beautiful," Heather said. "You have to get this dress."

Clair could barely believe her own reflection in the mirror. There was no reason to try on the other dresses.

It was only after changing back into her own clothes that Clair checked the price tag. "Oh my goodness. Heather, it costs $50 dollars," she whispered. "I've never spent that much on a dress in my life."

"Don't worry. Napoleon gave me more than enough cash. He said he'd settle up with Mr. Lundy later. I think Lundy was just about ready to hand over the entire checkbook." They used a bit more of Napoleon's money to buy delicate silver pumps at a shoe store down the block.

After shopping they had just enough time to get their hair done. Delphine had suggested an updo to show off the plunging back on the dress. The stylist claimed Clair looked just like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffanys. "All you need is a cigarette holder," she had said as she spun the chair so Clair could see her reflection. She had to admit it looked sophisticated and a good deal more grown up than her usual long ponytail.

"Napoleon and Illya are going to stop by around 7:00 so we can all go to the dinner together," Heather said as she showed Clair into her apartment. It was fairly spacious as New York apartments went, the downside being it was four flights up with no elevator. "Let me show you the guest room. It's pretty small, I'm afraid."

The room wasn't much bigger than a storage closet, but it had a window and a bed. Clair hung her dress on the back of the door and did her best to get out of her sweater without disrupting her hairdo. Getting ready for the evening, chatting and laughing with Heather as they dressed, brought memories of the fun parts of dorm life. The camaraderie was one thing she would miss.

The two women were in Heather's bedroom as Clair zipped Heather into her green satin sheath when the doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Heather said, stepping into her heels. "You should make an entrance."

"Oh for heaven's sake," Clair muttered to herself. She took one last look in the mirror and picked up the evening bag. "This isn't a date."

So, why did she feel so nervous? She'd been to plenty of dances and events at university, but those had felt like child's play. This was a grownup affair and Clair felt off balance.

Trying to calm her nerves, she stood at the door and listened to Napoleon complain about the four flights of stairs and compliment Heather, in that order. Clair took a deep breath and entered the room.

"Wow. Now that's what I had in mind," Napoleon said when he saw her. "You look beautiful."

"You do indeed," Illya agreed. "Very elegant."

Both men wore dress clothes, looking as handsome as movie stars.

"We better get going," Napoleon said. "I want to double check the guard detail."

The event was held in the ballroom of a beautiful old hotel. For security reasons, the location had been known only to a tight circle, and divulged to the attendees at the last minute. While a few important men from other foreign locations were in attendance, this was primarily a New York office affair. Mr. Waverly wanted this to be a fairly intimate event for his people.

Clair was seated at Waverly's table, along with Mrs. Waverly, their daughter and son-in-law. The family had welcomed her after she was orphaned. She'd spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with them, visited the family lake vacation home. But she felt more a part of the U.N.C.L.E. family, the men who had worked with her father, if truth be told. Nonetheless, she was enormously honored to be at the head table.

Dinner was served, speeches were made, a few by people who, like Clair's father, had worked with Waverly during the war. Clair thought Napoleon's remarks were especially personal and touching. He talked about Waverly's vision and dedication. Napoleon had been given the honor of presenting the engraved plaque.

During dessert, the band started to play music and a few couples gathered on the dance floor. Guests began to move around the room and chat with each other over coffee. Mr. Waverly's daughter and son-in-law left the head table to dance.

Mr. Waverly slipped into one of their vacated chairs and patted Clair's hand. "I'm so glad you were able to come. I know how stressful the end of term can be."

"I'm happy to be here. I'm so grateful for all you've done for me, I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

Waverly drew his pipe out of his jacket pocket. "Do you mind?" he asked with a glance in her direction.

"No, not at all," she replied. He was already fidgeting with matches, striking one and puffing to get the tobacco to light .

"I've been pondering your housing situation at Columbia," he said, exhaling smoke. "I'm afraid perhaps I've been considering only your chronological age and not the stage of your education."

"Yes, sir?" Clair sat up a little straighter.

"In a month, you'll have your undergraduate degree well ahead of the typical age most achieve such a feat. You've conducted yourself with maturity beyond your years. I want to acknowledge that, so I agree that you should move into your apartment when the current lease expires. I've instructed Mr. Lundy to notify the tenant that they will not be able to renew their lease."

Clair threw her arms around Waverly. "Thank you so much," she said. "Oh, sir-please forgive my impulsivity." As she released him she was happy to note the pleased smile on his face.

"Nothing to forgive, my dear."

"Sir, I'm very happy, but I must confess some curiosity. How did this change come about?"

Or more likely, she wanted to ask, did someone influence the change?

"Well, you made some excellent points when we last discussed the issue, Clair. Let's just say that I recently reflected on that more closely and changed my position."

"Well, thank you more than I can express," she said.

Some of the other guests began to approach the table to congratulate the guest of honor and Clair took her leave. She made her way toward the dance floor. She stood for a few minutes, watching the crowd, swaying with the music. She noticed Napoleon as he danced with Heather, moving with casual grace. Clair was not surprised to see that he was a terrific dancer.

"He's in his element."

She turned to smile at Illya who had moved next to her on the fringe of the dance floor.

"I'd say so," she agreed. "Do you like to dance?"

"Actually, I do. I don't get much opportunity outside of the occasional assignment, so I'm probably rusty. Clair, may I have this dance?"

"Sure," she said, hoping she hadn't seemed to be fishing for an invitation.

Illya took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. He pulled her close, moving to the music-a song from years ago that she couldn't quite place. She tried to control her breathing, hoping he hadn't heard her little gasp when he took her in his arms.

What on earth was happening?

She'd realized years ago that she had a crush on Illya. They had a strong bond from the very beginning, and he had always treated her as an adult. It had been inevitable that she would be attracted to this handsome, worldly, older man, especially since he was also brilliant and kind.

Her only consolation was that Illya didn't seem to detect the schoolgirl crush. She would have been completely humiliated if he'd known.

Clair's senses were flooded with input: the scent of his aftershave; the strength of his body, so close to hers; the sensation of his hand, warm on her bare back. Her mind sorted through competing details as she tried not to trip over his feet, all the while wondering what was the name of that damn song.

"When I Fall in Love."

"I beg your pardon," Illya said, smiling down at her.

"The name of this song," she said, blushing furiously. She hadn't realized she said it out loud. "I had been trying to remember the title."

"Ah yes, by Nat King Cole. You seem distracted, Clair. Are you having a good time?"

"Oh, I am. Very much so." She took a deep breath and tried to muster her composure and get her mind off how wonderful Illya smelled. "I just had a very interesting conversation with Mr. Waverly. He has changed his mind about my living arrangements at Columbia."

"How wonderful!"

"Yes, it certainly is. I asked him what had caused the change."

"And what did he say?" Illya asked, his tone completely nonchalant.

"He said he reflected on my discussion with him several weeks ago, and realized he hadn't taken my maturity into consideration." Relieved at gaining her emotional footing, she leaned back to look into his eyes. "The timing seems odd, though. It's almost as if someone had interceded on my behalf."

"You know, I've known Waverly for many years. It's really not that unusual for him to ruminate on a subject for weeks before coming to a final decision."

"Really. I had no idea," she said, with a smile. Illya shrugged and smiled back. She wouldn't press the issue. Their delightful discussion had served it's purpose.

A feeling of warmth came over her and she felt protected and cared for. Her friends had shown, yet again, that they were there for her, that she was not alone in the world. The future was opening up for her, and it both thrilled and terrified her. She would complete her education in the field of her choice. And she would finally have a place to call home.

Now if she could just figure out what to do about this silly crush.


End file.
